


Eggshells

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Baking, F/F, cakes, in which sue perkins is totally on the clexa train, so many cakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 01:46:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7020643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On your marks.</p><p>Get set.</p><p>Bake!</p><p>(Great British Bake-Off AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eggshells

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not British. At all. Never even been there. My name is Brittney, which means "from Britain," but I'm definitely not. Everything you see about Britian in this fic comes from research and cultural osmosis. I do really, really love Bake Off, though. If you've never seen it, please, please do. You will not regret it. 
> 
> If you're not familiar with the whole concept, [Wikipedia can do a better job explaining it than I can](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_British_Bake_Off), but basically twelve delightful British humans spend ten weeks baking their butts off. The hosts are Sue Perkins and Mel Giedroyc, who are adorable, and the judges are Paul Hollywood and Mary Berry, who are, you guessed it, adorable. Every week there are three challenges based around a common theme, the signature, technical, and showstopper. Each week one person is awarded Star Baker and another is eliminated. Everyone is really happy and cute and it lacks the intense competitive drama of American baking shows, with ten times more of the satisfying sweetness between all of the contestants.
> 
> Thanks to my beautiful wife Rebecca [liveonthesun](http://archiveofourown.org/users/liveonthesun) for not only tolerating my descent into Clexa madness, but also for listening to me go on and on about all the things I learned about baking while writing, beta-reading, and still loving me at the end of the day.

Clarke’s in the shower, washing shampoo out of her hair, when Raven pulls back the curtain and says, “Get out. Right now.” Clarke’s first reaction is sheer terror--she’s never seen _Psycho_ , but she knows enough--but her facial expression must alert Raven to how terrifying she sounds. She adds, brandishing Clarke’s mobile phone out of the way of the running water, “It’s the _Bake Off_ people. They’re on the phone.”

“Holy shit,” says Clarke, reaching so fast for the knob that she accidentally turns it all the way over to hot and scalds herself. Biting back a hiss of pain, she manages to turn it off, wrap herself in the towel Raven hands to her, and step out. She takes the phone from Raven and settles on the toilet.

“Hello?” she says cautiously into the phone.

“Hello, is this Clarke Griffin?” asked a peppy voice on the other end.

“This is her.”

“Hi, I’m Patsy from Love Productions at BBC. I wanted to talk to you about your audition…”

So that’s how Clarke came to be part of the 2017 season of _Great British Bake Off_ : naked, in a towel, on the toilet, while her best friend hovered obnoxiously, biting her fingernails. If anything, she would always think later, it certainly makes a great story for the papers.

**Week One: Tarts**

The Friday of the first weekend of shooting, Clarke wakes up at five AM and can’t get back to sleep even though she’s pretty sure she hadn’t fallen asleep until about two hours before that. Instead, she lays in bed, all but vibrating with energy, until the sun finally rises. She’s packed and unpacked and repacked about three hundred times that week, until finally Raven had to hide her suitcase. “Clarke, you’re not even allowed to wear more than one outfit,” she’d pointed out. It’s true, but Clarke still feels like maybe she should pack at least four more than that. Just in case.

She tries a cup of tea, scrolling through Facebook, and taking Raven’s dog Buttercup for a walk, and even so she still feels like her insides were climbing out of her skin. And the car to take her to Brighton still won’t arrive for another three or so hours. Clarke paces the living room a few more times and then looks into the kitchen.

She knows of at least one thing that will calm her down.

Thirty minutes later, Raven shuffles into the kitchen from her bedroom. “You’re shitting me. You’re not baking right this minute.”

Clarke looks up from where she’s watching over her beloved stand mixer as it works through the dough. “I couldn’t think of what else to do.”

“You’re going to spend the whole weekend baking! Shouldn’t you give yourself a break?”

Clarke shrugs. “For me, this is a break.”

Raven rolls her eyes. “You really deserve to win. You’re the world’s biggest nerd when it comes to baking.” She steps closer and peers into the bowl. “What are you making?”

“Sour cream donuts.”

Raven makes a sound like Clarke has just announced that Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson is volunteering to eat her out for three hours. “Thank god for you,” she says, climbing into one of the stools that lined the counter. “When will they be done?”

“Not for another hour and a half, they’ve got to chill in the refrigerator for a bit.”

Raven folds her arms and rests her head on them. She closes her eyes. “You won’t mind if I take a little nap then.” In just a few minutes, her breathing is deep and even and she’s asleep again. That’s the thing about Raven. She can probably sleep through a stampede of hippos.

Clarke smiles at her and goes through the motions of making the donuts as quietly as she can. While she’s chilling the dough, she works on making the glaze: powdered sugar, corn syrup, vanilla, salt. It’s one of the recipes she used to make with her dad and she knows it by heart. That’s why she knew it would calm her down.

The sizzle of the oil in the frying pan about an hour later is what wakes Raven up. Clarke is frying the first batch of donuts. She’s always loved the way the scent hits you all of a sudden. She thinks maybe that’s why donuts are such a good morning food. “God, that smells amazing,” says Raven. “I feel bad for all those people whose best friends aren’t about to kick everyone’s ass on _Bake Off_. What do they eat for breakfast?”

“Cereal, probably,” says Clarke, as she carefully transfers the donuts from the pan to the cooling rack. She carefully drizzles them with the glaze before starting the next batch. “Hey, since I won’t be around this weekend, would you mind taking these over to my mom’s sometime today?”

Raven shrugs. “Considering she loves me more than you, I’m sure she’d be delighted to see me.”

It’s only mostly a joke. Sometimes Clarke is convinced that her mom does love Raven more than she loves Clarke. It’s not usually a problem, and in some ways it makes Clarke glad. If anything, it makes weekly family dinners--her, Raven, her mom, and Marcus--a lot less anxiety-inducing when Raven’s around to make everyone laugh. Clarke wonders if she’ll miss those dinners for the next couple of months. Sometimes, she thinks yes, but overall, she’s pretty sure the answer is no.

The donuts don’t take much longer to finish, especially since Clarke can never persuade Raven into believing that the cooling process matters. “I’ll eat them when I want to eat them,” Raven always says. “You fancy Mary Berrys and Barefoot Contessas can’t stop me.” By the time they’re finished eating and Clarke has cleaned herself up and gotten ready to leave, there’s a knock at the door. 

All of the anxiety Clarke had worked into the donut dough and fried away comes hurtling back with no mercy. She opens the door to a friendly face. “Hullo,” says the man. “I’m Nyko. Are you Clarke Griffin?”

Clarke nods. “Nice to meet you,” she adds.

“And you,” he replies. “Are you ready? The drive to Brighton isn’t far but there’ll be traffic.”

“It’s London,” says Clarke, smiling even though she feels more like her face is melting off. “Isn’t there always traffic?”

Raven gives her a hug goodbye and kisses her on the cheek. “You’ll be wonderful,” she promises, but Clarke isn’t so sure.

Nyko helps carry her ridiculously heavy bag down to the towncar waiting at the bottom of the stairs to her and Raven’s flat. She looks up and sees Buttercup watching from the windows. She smiles and climbs into the car.

~*~

Lexa has never stayed in a hotel this posh in her life. Scratch that, she’s never stayed in a hotel at all, but this takes the cake. 

No pun intended, she jokes to herself, and smiles as she looks around in awe at the enormous bed, and her own private bathroom. She doesn’t even have a private bathroom at home--there, she shares with her cranky housemate and (for lack of a better word) best friend, Anya. And the sea is only a ten minute walk away. Although spring has sprung, it’s too cold for swimming, but Lexa feels the pull of the ocean even from indoors. It’s the center of everything here. She wonders if the tent will be right on the beach. That would be lovely, she thinks, if not especially conducive to baking.

As it’s the first evening and the baking doesn’t commence until morning, all the contestants have been invited to a private party to meet each other down in the courtyard. She’s not sure she’s particularly amenable to a party after a terrible train ride down from her terrible flat, which had (terribly) flooded yesterday, but she’s curious about the other contestants. She wants to know what she’s up against while their guard is still down. Which sounds ludicrously Machiavellian even in her own brain, but still.

She changes into a simple dress she’d packed just in case and heads down to the courtyard after sipping from a bottle of mineral water from the mini-bar which she only does because she can. There are fairy lights strung up all around and there’s a string quartet playing a cover of an Ellie Goulding song. People are gathered in small groups, chatting over tiny plates of crudites and and sausage balls. It looks like it’s not just contestants, but the crew too. She thinks she spies Sue Perkins chatting to a blonde girl with pink streaks in her hair near a tower of champagne glasses. 

Of all the people here, she feels like she at least kind of knows Sue Perkins, even if it’s only from her TV set and the second audition, during which Sue had winked at her, so that’s where she heads first. Sue sees her coming and says, “Welcome! Lexa Woods, right?”

Lexa smiles. She likes Sue in real life almost as much as she loves her onscreen. “Yes. I’m impressed you remember.”

“It’s my job!” Sue gestures at the blonde next to her. “Lexa, this is Clarke Griffin. She’s another contestant on the show.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” says Lexa, not untruthfully. Clarke has blue eyes and a charming dimple in her chin, like someone pressed it gently before sending her to earth. Lexa wonders if the casting directors accepted Clarke based on her looks alone. It’s an uncharitable thought, but she would have done the same. 

“Lexa’s from London, by way of Bromley. And Clarke here is from Berkshire, but I believe she lives in London too. Did you know, you both mentioned Julia Child in your applications?” Sue opens her palms wide. “You two have plenty to discuss! Meanwhile, I think they just brought out cheesecake, so I’ll be on my way.”

She leaves them to hurry over to the dessert table, where indeed, the servers have just uncovered a beautiful strawberry cheesecake. Lexa turns to Clarke, who is watching her with an expression Lexa can’t name. “Where do you live in London?” Lexa asks politely. She’s not good at small talk and is grateful that Sue has given her an in. 

“Oh, um,” Clarke says, “I’m in Westminster. I’m at King’s College. Studying nursing.” She silently offers Lexa a flute of champagne and Lexa accepts.

Lexa sips and asks, “Any particular kind of nurse?”

Clarke shrugs. “I’d like to be a midwife. My mum’s a doctor, but I didn’t want to be in school for 800 years. And I like babies.”

Lexa raises her eyebrows. “I used to want to do something like that. Midwifery. But that was something like the fifth career I thought I’d decided on when I was in school.”

“What do you do now?”

Lexa sighs. Her least favorite question. She grips the stem of the champagne flute a little tighter. It’s one thing when she’s talking to other strangers around her town, but to a girl from Berkshire, who lives in Westminster? Who looks like she could play the love interest in a Jane Austen adaptation? Lexa prepares herself to be wholly judged. “Right now I deliver mail.” She takes another sip. “But that’s temporary.”

To her surprise, Clarke nods with something like understanding in her eyes. “I get that. This is going to change everything, won’t it? Even if neither of us wins, it’s like, we might get mentioned in _The Sun_ every time we get a new boyfriend.” Clarke’s grin grows wider, and a little more mischievous. “Or girlfriend.”

Lexa feels her cheeks warm. Was that a confirmation of her unanswered question, or Clarke’s way of asking it? She decides to leave it hanging. “They still mention people that lost _The X Factor_ five years ago,” she says. Clarke doesn’t seem to notice.

“Exactly! So are you ready to be a minor celebrity for all eternity? Personally, I’m hoping it’ll give me some kind of edge.” She pretends to drive, then roll down an imaginary window. “Oh, yes, officer. Was I speeding? Oh--yes, I _am_ Clarke Griffin from series 8 of Bake Off. How kind of you for noticing. Yes, you may have my autograph.”

Lexa laughs, surprising even herself. Clarke takes it as encouragement, and they pretend to get into increasingly ridiculous situations in which they use their D-List celebrity to get out of scrapes. And then they talk about their friends, and then how they started baking, and their “please join our show” calls, until Lexa looks around and notices that she and Clarke are among the few people still left in the courtyard.

Clarke grins. “Whoops,” she says, not looking all that sorry. “So much for meeting everyone.”

“We’ll meet them tomorrow,” says Lexa. “Speaking of, I should get to sleep.”

“Me too,” says Clarke.

They stand there for a moment, waiting for something but neither of them seem to be sure what they’re waiting for. Finally, Lexa says, softly, “Good night, Clarke.”

“Good night, Lexa.” 

Lexa turns and walks back to her hotel room in a bit of a daze. _Well_ , she thinks, _that’s going to be distracting_.

~*~

The wake-up call comes bright and early the next morning. The contestants are piled into two black vans. Clarke looks around but Lexa climbs into the other van before Clarke can catch her eye. Instead, she ends up sitting next to a guy not much older than her, black hair swooping across his forehead. He introduces himself as Monty.

The drive to the tent doesn’t take long. It’s not quite on the beach, but might as well be. They’re on top of a grassy knoll, but when they look to the west, they can see the foam-capped waves rolling in and out. They’re close enough to tell that there are seagulls bobbing up and down. It’s absolutely gorgeous.

Clarke doesn’t get another chance to speak to Lexa that morning, although they wave a little at each other in passing as they get herded into hair and makeup. 

Clarke had been surprised the night before, how well and how quickly they had clicked. Clarke’s good at making acquaintances, but she doesn’t do so well when it comes to making friends. She rarely experiences that special kind of connection--the kind that tells you you’ve just met someone who will be in your life for a long time. Lexa, with her quiet, intense beauty, and her guarded eyes, is not someone Clarke would have ever expected to make that kind of connection with, but there’s definitely _something_ there.

Clarke hopes neither of them are eliminated this weekend.

Instead, Clarke makes friends with the sibling pair seated in the chairs near hers. Their names are Bellamy and Octavia, and they don’t seem nearly as competitive as they should be for the first pair of siblings to ever appear on the show. Bellamy is serious and focused, but his drive is no match for Octavia’s carefree wit. Clarke likes them both.

The first signature challenge is a quiche, and Clarke has been practicing all week. Raven had wanted her to take the bacon route, but Clarke isn’t about to break her five-year vegetarian streak, not even for Paul and Mary. Instead, she’s perfected a recipe from her grandmother’s ancient cookbook, a cheesy courgette quiche. The only thing she had to worry about was the crust, but that was the same thing everyone else had to worry about, which made her feel a bit better.

The feeling of wanting to crawl out of her skin vibrates through her as Mel and Sue explain the parameters of the challenge, and Clarke resigns herself to the fact that this may very well become a recurring experience over the next ten weeks. God, she hopes it’s for the next ten weeks. Finally, the on your marks, get set, bake comes, and Clarke all but dives into her work. 

It had taken her years to perfect her pie crust recipe. That process is one of the things she likes best about baking: the science, the experimentation, the way certain ingredients tend to interact with one another. She’d tried every pie recipe she could get her hands on, but in the end, she likes to stick with something basic: flour, cold butter, salt, and--her secret weapon--just a bit of vodka to make it easy to roll out. Normally she would have chilled the dough overnight but given that she only has an hour and a half, she takes her chances and sticks it in the freezer instead. She’s done it once or twice in a pinch, but it never turns out quite as well. Hopefully Paul and Mary aren’t too disappointed.

Having the cameras around is both easier and stranger than she had expected. She barely notices them when she’s focused on her work, but when they come round to where’s she standing by the freezer and start asking questions, she can’t help but be a little flustered. She explains her usual pie crust habits, and explains that she wished she could have made hers a bit early. She smiles as much as she can for the cameras, but she’s desperate to get back to her station.

The rest of the bake is fairly easy. The smell of the courgette and onion frying in the butter is so heavenly, she’s sure it’s what brings Mel and Sue wandering over to her station.

“Tell us about your bake,” says Mel, easy and friendly, just as she is on television.

Clarke smiles. “Well, it’s my grandmother’s recipe, actually. We used to eat it at the weekend, on Sunday mornings. It’s good because there’s always too many courgettes in the garden.”

“It smells absolutely delicious,” says Sue. “I’m glad some people know what to do with courgettes because I can only think of one thing.” She picks up a courgette and puts it to her head like a unicorn and prances around. Clarke catches the eye of the girl at the station next to hers and they burst out laughing.

The girl is named Harper. They chat a little in the short interim where their filling is finished but they’re waiting for their crusts to set. Harper’s working on an asparagus, leek, and gruyere quiche. Just the sound of it makes Clarke’s mouth water. Harper is from Surrey and she’s only a year younger than Clarke, except that she’s reading English at Cambridge.

There isn’t much more time to talk, however, when Sue announces there are only twenty minutes left in the challenge. This spurs Clarke back into action, with an apologetic smile at Harper as she rushes back to her station.

Soon, time is up and Paul and Mary are working their way through the stations and tasting each of the bakes. They’re impressed by the work of an older black man named Thelonius, an apple, cheddar, and rosemary quiche. Less so by the work of a small woman named Hannah, whose crust crumbles into oblivion when Paul cuts into it. Clarke finds herself holding her breath when they reach Lexa, but Mary seems satisfied enough by the bake. 

Finally, they reach Clarke. She can’t believe how blue Paul’s eyes are in real life. “This is lovely presentation,” he says, smiling up at her. “What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m a midwife,” says Clarke. “Or, well, studying to be one.”

“The way you’ve placed the courgette slices all around tell me you’ve got a steady hand. You’d need them, for nursing.”

Mary takes a dainty bite of the quiche. “The crust is wonderful. A little underbaked in the middle, but not too terribly. And the flavors are just right. Well done.”

Clarke feels like a huge weight has been lifted off her shoulders. She gives them a rather wobbly smile before they turn to Harper’s station. _It’s only the first challenge_ , she has to remind herself. _There’s still time for you to fuck up_. But she still feels proud nonetheless.

The technical challenge brings her back down to earth quickly enough. They’re set to make an apricot brioche tart, and not only does Clarke hate apricots, but bread is her biggest weakness. Not to mention _brioche_ , which she’s never gotten just right. She looks around at her station and realizes she’s lost her spatula somehow.

She approaches a harried-looking bald man whose name badge reads Titus. He and the rest of the crew had been introduced that morning, but Clarke isn’t quite sure who’s in charge of what. As she nears him, however, she’s beat out by the one person she’s been trying not to stare at all morning.

“Excuse me,” Lexa says breathlessly. “I think I’ve lost the paper that has the recipe on it.”

Clarke widens her eyes. Talk about stressful. She waits patiently at the end of Octavia’s station while Octavia entertains her with ridiculous brioche-based innuendo. 

Titus pulls another copy of the recipe out of his pocket and hands it over. Lexa looks like he’s just handed her a get out of the bottom three free card. “Thank you so much,” she says. She looks up and Clarke catches her eye. Lexa’s cheeks burn pink and she turns away, hurrying back to her station.

Clarke frowns but tries not to read too much into it. After all, everyone’s a bit stressed, given the circumstances. Titus quickly finds another spatula for her and Clarke gets back to work. She does her best to push the encounter out of her mind.

Three hours later, she’s sitting on a stool between Harper and Thelonius, staring at her nightmare of an apricot brioche tart. The tart part is fine, but the brioche was as much of a disaster as she had expected. She hadn’t let the bread prove for nearly as long as it should have been, and the loaf had been more of a milky tea color than the deep brown Paul and Mary would be looking for.

Fortunately, it’s not the worst disaster of the lot. When Paul announces last place, he points at a bake that looks more like a melted volcano than a tart. A man named Jasper with a pair of goggles on his forehead timidly raises his hand. Hannah, who apparently has a problem with gauging oven heat, has burned her bake again. Clarke is third from last. 

Lexa takes first place for the technical. When everyone claps politely for her, she ducks her head and seems as if she’s trying hard not to smile too much, but Clarke can tell: she’s immensely proud of herself.

~*~

The bakers and crew are invited to dinner that evening in the huge dining room at the hotel. After being surrounded by food all day, Lexa didn’t think she’d be hungry, but when she sees the spread on the table near the doors, her stomach growls immediately.

She makes a beeline for the buffet line and ends up standing behind the brother and sister whose stations had been near hers earlier that day. “How are you holding up?” asks the brother politely when she approaches them.

She shrugs. “Not bad. It wasn’t as awful as I had expected.”

The girl laughs. Lexa can’t remember either of their names. Is it Ophelia? “I’ll bet so, Ms. First Place. I’m Octavia, by the way.” She sticks out her hand to shake.

“Lexa. And--?”

The man smiles. He has a wide mouth and there’s something strangely soothing about his presence. Like he’d protect you if he had to. “I’m Bellamy. Congratulations on first place.”

They move forward in line. Octavia turns around completely to better see Lexa. “I never expected to do well this week, anyway,” she says. “Tarts are not my strong point.” Lexa is about to respond when Octavia is distracted by something over her shoulder. She waves the person over.

Lexa turns her head and sees the one person she’s been trying to avoid all day. Clarke’s bright grin triggers an alarm in Lexa’s head. _Danger, danger, Will Robinson_! “Hi, everyone!” Clarke greets them. “This all looks delicious, doesn’t it?”

“Who’d have known I’d be starving right now, after the day we’ve had?” says Octavia, laughing. “Clarke, do you know--”

“We’ve met,” interjects Clarke, catching Lexa’s eye. Lexa can feel herself turning pink again. She doesn’t love herself for it. “You were incredible today.”

“Thank you,” says Lexa, trying not to give into the warmth in her cheeks, which desperately wants to seep into her voice. “You did well, yourself.” She needs to stay focused. She can’t afford to give into whatever this is, whatever connection she felt last night. Not even if Clarke’s eyes are nearly as blue as Paul Hollywood’s, and if her smile makes Lexa feel a little bit like something inside her is melting.

So much depends on her success. Too much. 

But Clarke offers to get them both drinks and Lexa doesn’t want to be rude, and Clarke sits next to her at the big round table, and she tells funny stories and makes everyone laugh. She’s a good listener, and when she presses her knee against Lexa’s underneath the table, Lexa doesn’t want to pull away.

The food is good and the champagne is flowing, and bedtime comes too soon. Most everyone else has already disappeared; she, Clarke, the Blake siblings, and a few crew members are all that’s left. Lexa yawns and immediately tries to pretend she didn’t. She knows she ought to rest up for showstopper day tomorrow, but she wants to stay right where she is.

“It’s about that time,” says Octavia, stretching. “Don’t want big bags under my eyes for the camera tomorrow.”

Bellamy nods. “She’s right. I mean, I don’t particularly care about the eye bags, but I also don’t want to fuck up and be sent home because I couldn’t be bothered to get myself to bed on time.”

They take their leave. Clarke looks at her. “Shall we, then?” she says, offering her arm. So Clarke walks her back to their floor, arms linked. When they reach Lexa’s door and she moves to open the door, Clarke reaches out to lay her hand on top of Lexa’s.

“I just…” Lexa looks at Clarke expectantly. She watches Clarke swallow, reach up to tuck her blonde hair behind her ears. Clarke seems more nervous than Lexa’s seen her so far. “I’m glad I met you, Lexa. Good luck tomorrow.”

Lexa nods, unsure what to say. Before she can open her mouth, Clarke is already halfway down the corridor.

She can see that she’s going to need to work a lot harder to keep her focus with Clarke Griffin around.

~*~

Lexa’s practiced her showstopper--twenty-four identical tropical fruit tartlets, with mango custard, topped with starfruit, mango, strawberries, and passionfruit--about a dozen times, and she knows she can do it, but baking in the tent is far different than when she’s at home with Anya hovering around giving her “tips” and Aden running underfoot. Where baking normally relaxes her, here, she’s stressed and making stupid mistakes. She had to throw out her first batch of pie dough because she’d added too much sugar and made the dough all crumbly, and now her hands are shaking as she slices the starfruit.

In the corner of her eye, she can see that Sinclair’s tiny, perfect chocolate tartlets are turning out just right, and the smell of Ontari’s white chocolate, raspberry, and cardamom tarts is making her stomach growl. Sue announces that there are only fifteen minutes left and Lexa’s panic reaches an all-time high.

In her rush to slice the fruit, Lexa loses her precision and her starfruit comes out all different sizes. She groans and curses the waste of time as she goes back and re-slices each of them so they look closer to identical. She had planned on using a spiralizer for the mango, but she’ll have to settle for slices instead. Thank god she’d done the kiwi earlier when she’d been bored waiting for the custard to set. 

She makes it just in time, but her tartlets are not nearly as pretty as they had been when she’d practiced. She sighs and leans against the counter, and stares up at the ceiling. 

Paul and Mary don’t totally hate it, although they notice the flaws--the chunky variability of the mango slices, and the custard is runny in some places. But all in all, she thinks she did okay. Octavia’s brown butter raspberry tartlets win her Star Baker. Hannah, she of the eternally burned crusts, is first to go home.

When the van drops everyone off back at the hotel, Lexa all but runs back to her hotel room to pick up the bag she’d packed that morning. She hurries to the station before anyone can stop her to say goodbye. The train ride back to Bromley is slow as ever, and Lexa wills it to go faster so she can start practicing for week two as soon as possible. Even if she wasn’t in the bottom three this week, she still wasn’t good enough. She still needs to do better if she’s going to win.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr [@whineosaur](http://whineosaur.tumblr.com/).


End file.
